What a mountain looks like at night

- Kevin Wei (California, USA)

Consider a closed room:

no windows, lights off.

You would imagine it’s dark;

the walls are black—

so black the pitchness

looks not like pitch,

but at you,

or rather in you,

as if behind your eyes

it taunts you:

“You will never reach me”

it says, but it lies—

the walls are there,

and they keep you warm.

You would know this

because there is what looks like

a little tangerine

hanging on over there.

Maybe it fell from a tree

that you sit under,

but can’t see

because (obviously) it’s dark.

But seeing how it is,

I would say it is a house,

and it’s snowing,

and its lights are on.

You imagine “how stark,”

only seeing that tiny house

from inside this room here—

but you once lived there

inside where

the walls have a million tangerines!

And the oranges themselves are filled with tomatoes,

onions, zesty bell peppers roasting to a carol—

and even dark purple grapes

springing their heads outside

to where you couldn’t see them,

because they, like you, blend too well

with this room—

but know that they are there,

just like the walls.

And they wave at you.

And they keep you warm.